Rumble Car
by Phx
Summary: Kind of an alternate 'Benders' type short story. One-shot is now a two-shot.
1. Chapter 1

_Another one shot. Kind of an alternate 'Benders' storyline, if you stretch your imagination. It is written in a bit of a different style than I usually do and please do not criticize my use of tenses in this story - it works. You'll see why when you read :) _

**Rumble Car**

The boy was hurting. He had no idea what they did to him but he knew he was in bad shape. He had lost all idea of where he was – he just knew they were still nearby because he could hear them moving somewhere around him. Teasing him, tormenting him. They knew they could finish him at any time.

He hated being toyed with – terrified actually.

He was a hunter and they'd made him their prey…

The boy dragged his body through the cold dirt and leaves. Hardly remembering even how he got out there. Someone had come to the room…

No time to think. He can hear them getting closer again – he can hear them beating their sticks on the ground – moments later he can feel them again and thankfully he loses consciousness this time.

…

The next time he wakes up, it is near morning and he is so cold and numb he can't feel the pain anymore. He decides it is a good thing and tries to force his leaden limbs to move. It's hard but he's determined. He had to be or else he'd be dead.

He doesn't know where they are anymore. He can't hear them and he's not sure if that is a good thing or bad.

Pushing himself, he can finally move, mere inches but each inch is closer to somewhere else. And right now, he needs to be anywhere else.

He continues forever, until he can't move anymore and slowly lowers his aching head to press his battered cheek against the cold earth. It's too hard. He's done. He can't go any further. He knows what his father and brother would say to him if they could see him now but it doesn't help because they can't.

The boy didn't know where either man was. His father was still missing and his brother – he scrunched up his eyes, trying to think… to remember. But it was so hard….

Suddenly a sound nearby stirred a memory. It was a low guttural growl and for a moment the boy was afraid he was about to be feasted on by some animal. But then the sound died off and he heard something else – something being slammed.

A door?

A door.

Someone was nearby!

Raising his head – the boy tried to cry out but the sound he managed to make was pathetic at best. There was no way, he'd be heard.

Disheartened, he felt hot tears burn his cheek and he pressed his face into the ground again. He would die here.

'_No,'_ he suddenly surged, _'not like this. I can't die like this_-' he was a hunter. A predator. Not prey. Not some animal left to die on the forest floor. And not today.

Forcing strength into his limbs, the boy pressed forward again, dragging his body slowly over the unforgiving terrain.

When his fingers finally felt gravel he looked up again, blinking in shock at the mirage in front of him.

_It couldn't be, could it?_

Blinking quickly, he let out a gasp. It was. It was his brother's car.

Black, chic and shiny, the 1967 testosterone inspired Chevy Impala sat in the middle of an otherwise empty parking lot. Nothing could touch that car. It was tuff.

"Oh God—" the boy gasped, "help me-"

In the woods behind him, he heard them again.

ooooooOOOOOOoooooo

Dean Winchester was worried. His brother had been missing for two days now, taken from their motel room while Dean had been out buying grub. When he came back, the room was empty.

At first he had thought the younger boy had left of his own accord – though that made no sense. But when he saw the single twined talisman that Sam normally wore around his wrist, in the middle of the floor, he knew something had happened.

Something or someone had taken his brother from their room. And now forty-eight hours later Dean was at his wits end. The police had no leads, he had no answers... and with every passing moment the twenty-six year old knew his brother got further away. Got harder to find.

"Damnit," he whispered, "where are you Sammy?"

Pulling into the empty gravel parking lot of a Seven-Eleven, the young man wearily walked inside to get his hundredth cup of coffee since this whole thing began.

ooooooOOOOOOoooooo

"Please-" the boy gasped begging the last ounce of strength from his body, "please-" He was close enough now that he could almost touch the car and still he heard them coming again. Gravel crunched under their booted feet. They were in no particular hurry, confident in their ability to reacquire him.

His hand strained forward and hope ignited cold in his heart when he touched the smooth metal of the car. Panting from the exertion, the boy reached up, using the car to pull himself to his knees.

_Oh God the pain…_

Head spinning dizzily, lungs straining for air that he just couldn't seem to breathe, his fingers somehow managed to close around the handle of the car.

They are so close now he can almost feel their breath on his back.

Summoning hidden strength, he yanked, praying it would be unlocked.

Oh God. It is.

Tumbling. Falling. Somehow long limbs and aching body sprawl across the seat, the door closing heavily behind him; although he doesn't remember being the one who closed it.

Closing his eyes, he trembles.

This car is the closest thing he has to home. He wants his brother.

_Where is Dean?_

They are at the door now and the young hunter lets out a sob. He has made it all this way for nothing.

…

They will kill him now. The hunt had been fun but it was time for the boy to die. And what could be a better coffin than this black car.

Eagerly they reach for the door and tug.

Nothing happens. The door won't open.

Now they are angry. They can see their quarry – they can smell him.

But although they are angry, there is someone else who is even more so.

ooooooOOOOOOoooooo

Dean glanced out the window and scowled. _What the fuck?_

Three shabbily dressed men – hillbillies by his guess – are crowding around his car. Mauling his precious baby.

Without thought to the numbers… three against one… Dean is hurrying from the store. "HEY!" he yells, his hand reaching for the gun in his waistband when he sees they are armed.

_Sticks? _Hillbillies with pointed sticks_. Oh wonderful._

"Get away from my car," he growls, the gun held out steadily in front of him.

The oldest of the three doesn't move. The two younger ones watch to see what the older is going to do.

"I said," Dean restates with emphasis, "Get. Away. From. My. Car."

"Yer car has sum'ting in it 'longs to us," one of the younger ones says and the hunter scowls at him – _Pigeon English. Fucking wonderful_.

"Yeah. And we wants it back," the other younger one adds.

The oldest of the hillbillies is carrying a shotgun and eyeing Dean warily. Dean has no trouble holding his gaze. He's still wired about his brother's disappearance and these good ole boys are starting to look like a damn good outlet for some of this pent up frustration.

"Well tough titty," Dean spat. "You know what they say about possession and all-" he sighed and rolled his eyes when three faces turned quizzical. "It's nine-tenths of the law."

"We don't do math," one of the younger hicks said so seriously the demon hunter had to laugh.

"Pity," was all Dean said. He motioned with the gun. "Step away from the car. I ain't going to be asking again."

The old man scratched an itch on his arm. "You a hunter?" he asked catching the younger man off guard.

"What?"

"Are you a hunter?" the man repeated, more slowly this time. And it irritated Dean to no end – he was not the slow one here.

"Fuck yeah," he replied with vehemence. He sighted on the old man's chest.

"So am I," the old man said swiftly bringing up his shotgun and firing. But he was a hair to slow as Dean squeezed the trigger first, catching him dead center in the skull. Soundlessly the man dropped.

Immediately the two younger men screamed and charged. Two more shots and the parking lot had two more bodies.

Dean heard someone moving behind him and whirled around, scaring the shit out of the young Seven-Eleven employee. The kid watched him with large, scared eyes. They traveled from Dean to the three dead man and then, to the hunter's shock, the employee relaxed and offered him a congratulatory smile.

"Oh thank God. It's about time someone killed those sons'abitches." The kid moved to the older dead man and kicked him in the side. Hard. "They've been hunting people around here for years."

"What?" Dean was shocked. _What was wrong with the people in this town?_

"You heard me," the employee offered. "They grab loners and then hunt them down." He lowered his voice as if anyone was around to overhear what he was about to say. "Rumor has it that they ate what they killed."

Dean suppressed a shudder. He looked at the kid. "Is this going to be a problem?" he indicated the three dead men but the employee laughed and shook his head.

"Nah." He assured him, "Take your car and go. I'll call the sheriff after you leave. He'll be relieved someone finally took care of this family – hell he'll probably want to give you a medal."

"I don't want a medal," Dean said softly. He sighed, his shoulders slumping wearily, "I just want my brother back."

The employee said nothing.

Sighing again, the exhausted hunter moved towards his car, reaching out absently to unlock the door when he froze.

No. It couldn't be.

He blinked, his heart starting to race in his chest. No… No…

Yes! It was his brother.

It was Sam.

Grabbing the door and whipping it open, Dean never even noticed that it was now unlocked. Little details like that were forgotten in his anxiousness to get to his brother.

Sam looked like crap and for one horrifying moment, the older Winchester thought he was dead. Pressing trembling fingers against a cold and bloodied throat, Dean let out a heavy sigh when he felt the steady thump, thump beneath his touch. His brother was alive.

"Sammy?" he shook the younger boy gently, mindful of the abuse the kid had taken as he quickly triaged the obvious injuries. Thank god nothing life threatening so far…

A flash of anger made him glance back at the three men and suddenly wish his aim hadn't been so true. They should not have died that easily – not for what they had done to his brother.

Bile rose into the back of his throat and Dean swallowed hard the bitter realization of what had happened. Those men had hunted his brother –

"Fucking assholes," he hissed angrily, taking off his jacket and carefully wrapping it around the unconscious younger boy.

He started to move away when a tentative hand grasped his wrist.

"Dean?" the word was barely audible.

"Yeah. Sammy. " He swallowed again. "It's me."

Eyes too old for his young face opened and peered up miserably at Dean. A weak smile graced the dirty and bruised face. "I love this car." And then the eyes slid shut again.

Blinking back the sudden stinging in his eyes, Dean eased his brother over and sat down in the driver's seat. The Impala roared to life and slowly pulled away from the parking lot.

Periodically he glanced at the younger boy as he drove, relieved beyond words to find him. He had been seriously starting to think he'd never see Sam again.

Dean shivered. That thought hit a little too close to home; to the almost all encompassing fear that he'd held at bay during the last two days. He refused to lose it now. Not after he had gotten his brother back.

He smiled ruefully and patted the car's dash affectionately; after his baby had gotten Sam back, he amended.

They'd need a room and soon, so he could take care of his brother, but Dean was hesitant to stop just yet. He wanted to put as much distance between them and this fucking hellhole of a town as possible.

_I love this car_… his brother's odd statement came back to him and so did the oddity of a number of things. Dean had locked the doors before he went into the store. He always did. With a weapons cache in the trunk, he would never leave it unlocked. Yet, somehow Sam had gotten inside.

And then the car doors were locked to the hillbillies but open for Dean, although he didn't remember unlocking them…

Shaking his head, too tired to properly try and process that, he decided that he must have left them unlocked when he went inside – he had been up for over forty-hours straight at the time – and then unlocked them afterwards, without realizing it.

Satisfied with his reasoning, Dean saw just what he was looking for and pulled in; a nice cozy little motel. Inside he'd find clean sheets and well looked after rooms.

Quickly paying for the room, he pulled up outside it and then roused his brother; pleased that the younger boy was responsive and made a show of trying to help as Dean eased him out of the car and moved them into the room.

He'd come back for the first aid kit and their duffle bags once he got Sam settled. And when he did, he'd eye his car just a little differently.

It was nothing he could place his finger on but whatever it was, he was grateful, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that if the Impala's doors _had _been locked, Sam would have died…

"Thank you," he whispered to the car and then went inside. He had something very important to take care of – his brother.

…

As the motel door closed, sheltering the hunters for the night, the 1967 black Chevy Impala kept vigil – once again her doors were locked.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

_K Hanna Korossy is solely responsible for the inspiration behind this second chapter. I wrote for her and dedicate it to her and she has so kindly said I could share :) I hope you enjoy! _

**Rumble Car**

**Chapter 2**

He woke three times the first night, each time with a lurch and pain-filled gasp; his body hated him. Oh, God, he hurt…

Each time, his brother was there with a calming touch and soothing voice. _S'okay, Sammy… I got you… I got you, bro… you're safe._ It made him almost feel like everything was all right. Almost. And then the memories like darkness pulled him down again.

The morning brought numbness. He lay in bed, his eyes opened but dully fixed on nothing as he listened to his brother moving around the room. Dean's voice prattled on about something, and he wished he could tell him to shut up. Not because he didn't want to hear him but because he needed to listen for something else. Something was not right there.

Swallowing dryly, he let his head loll slowly across the pillow so he could look at the other wall. He was forgetting something.

He was forgetting a lot of somethings…

"Hey, dude." The bed sunk on his other side, but he didn't have the strength to turn back. His brother placed a warm hand on his jaw and did the work for him. He felt pathetic. "You awake this time?"

"_Please_," he managed a whisper, his dry lips otherwise moving without sound. His eyes burned and something hot scalded his cheeks. "_Please_…"

"Please?" His brother leaned in closer and he closed his eyes. "Please, what, Sammy?"

He wished he knew what he was asking for.

Darkness welcomed him again.

…

Dean was slowly losing his mind. He watched as his brother shifted on the bed, Sam's quiet whimper driving coldness through Dean's bones. He shivered and moved closer.

"Easy, bro," he murmured as the kid flinched away from the closeness. "It's just me." He wasn't sure if Sam's comprehension was drug-induced or injury–dulled, but mere slits of green roamed the room at the sound of his voice, eventually coming to rest on Dean. Only then did Sam relax, such a minor shifting of tension that anyone else there besides the man who'd practically raised Sam would have missed it. "See," Dean forced his best smile. "Just me."

Sam blinked at him. One tear slowly marked a path down the pale and beaten face, and Dean hated that tear and everything it stood for: Sam's pain, Dean's not being there when Sam was taken. Fresh anger, hot and fierce, demanded an impossible vengeance; the men who had beaten, _hunted_ his brother were already dead. Still, it wasn't enough. Reaching out to catch the tear with the tip of his thumb, Dean knew it would never be enough.

"Monsters, I get," he whispered to his hurting brother, his touch gentle as it ghosted over the bruised face. "People are just plain crazy."

Sam might have agreed, but Dean would never be sure.

…

He watched his brother sleep, his own breaths carefully measured to avoid pain and to keep from alerting Dean that he was awake again. It was hard and he fought instinct not to panic until, finally, he couldn't keep still anymore and new movement brought fresh torture. He groaned.

Instantly, Dean was awake and there. "Hey, hey," his brother threw off sleep, no blurriness or hesitation in his voice, "easy… nice and slow, Sammy… breathe through it."

Dean always knew what was wrong, even before Sam did.

He wanted to laugh; he wanted to cry. How could he breathe through it when _breathing_ hurt? Damn sticks. He settled for a half sob as he tried to curl on his side, but that hurt, too. Everything hurt. He felt hands on him, gently trying to keep him from moving as the bed dipped under his brother's weight. Dean sitting beside him helped, but he still hurt.

Writhing against his brother's careful restraint, he felt fresh tears of frustration and fought to blink them back, to suck up the pain like he'd been taught. Then Dean was carefully pulling him up, sitting him up so he could lean forward. His forehead rested against a muscular shoulder and, God help him, as pathetic as they must have looked, it helped.

Propped against his brother, Sam could finally breathe again. He let out a weary sigh. "This. Sucks," he managed, and felt Dean's body vibrate with a soft chuckle.

A warm grip squeezed the back of his neck lightly. "Yeah, it does, doesn't it?"

He closed his eyes, hesitant to say anything else and not wanting to ask his brother for more when Dean had already given him so much, knowing that his brother would stay like this, without complaint, if that was what Sam needed, Dean's own comfort be damned. He knew because it was no less than what he would do if things were different. "Can't…," he whispered, "stay here… all night… like this…"

Dean seemed to seriously consider that because he didn't answer right away. The steady cadence of his brother's chest soothed, hypnotized, and Sam was almost asleep again when the older man began, "Well…" He pushed his eyes open at the hesitancy in his brother's voice. "There's always the car…"

The car?

Suddenly, he was flooded with images. Darkness. Steel. Cold. Warm. Protected. _Dean._ Safe. Home…

And suddenly he needed to be nowhere else.

"Please…," he whispered, and knew what he'd been asking for before. "Yes."

He barely felt the shift of his brother's nod, and then he was slowly being pulled up.

…

Moving Sam to the car was an exercise in itself. His brother tried to help and _did_ help, but Dean knew Sam's consciousness was only due to pure stubbornness at its best. And he'd never loved the kid more.

The Impala, dark and quiet, had never looked so welcoming before as Dean carefully propped his brother against her frame so he could unlock and open the door. Even the door's squeak seemed more muted then usual, as if in understanding.

"My hair… hurts…," Sam mumbled, and it made Dean smile. He might not have much left in this world, but what he did was precious to him.

Carefully folding his brother inside the car, Dean cast a glance back at the room, hesitant to leave his brother alone but needing to get their things. He chewed his lip and considered the younger man for a few moments, then crouching down to his brother's eye-level, he asked, "You gonna be okay for a few minutes?" Not that there was much choice; once they left they wouldn't be coming back. "I gotta get the bags."

"Hmmm…" Sam's eyes were already sliding closed again and Dean took that as a yes.

Patting his brother gently on the leg, Dean straightened and quietly closed Sam's door. He'd make packing up quick.

Only once the bags were tossed in the back and he was sure Sam was as comfortably settled as could be, curled up half-asleep and facing Dean, did he finally and truly relax, perhaps for the first time since Sam had been taken. There was just something about being in the car that lent a different sense of security, of safety. Of home. He could protect his brother here.

Sam sighed heavily and seemed to actually snuggle into the black vinyl. Dean's smile broadened, a cross between amusement and affection. "Get a room," he whispered, then started the engine and slowly pulled away from the motel.

With each passing mile, Sam seemed more at ease. It was as if the kid didn't feel comfortable in the motel room and, upon reflection, Dean figured he didn't. Sam had been taken from their room, forced out of it by the hillbillies for their macabre hunt. It was no wonder the young hunter had been so fretful, as if his physical injuries weren't enough. Dean shook his head. He should have realized it before. Not that it would have really changed anything because Dean had needed somewhere more than the backseat of his beloved car to properly treat his brother first. But now, back in the Impala, the world was right again.

Giving a self-satisfied nod, Dean turned the music on low and hummed softly. Even if Sam was asleep, he wanted his brother to know he was still right there.

…

He wasn't asleep. Not yet. His aching body actually found the seats more to its liking than the lumpy bed had been, and sometimes he would swear the Impala had molded his body to hers over the years and not the other way around.

This car had been his childhood. He had laughed, learned, and been loved here. He had hurt, bled, and cried here. And most of all, he still lived here.

When he closed his eyes, he swore he could still smell the lingering scent of his father: a mixture of sweat, smoke, and something sweeter, an herb Sam could never place. He could see the ghost of his older brother, when Dean was younger, grinning at him from the front seat, confident that he could do anything and constantly proving it to Sam. And if he tried even harder, he was sure he smelt his mother's perfume –

But that was a stretch.

Sinking back against the seats, Sam closed his eyes and let the sounds of the tires on the blacktop, the rumbling of the engine, and even the sweetest strains of Def Leppard and his brother's humming lull him to sleep. The Winchester lullaby and promise that everything was okay.

"Dean," he murmured sleepily, "I love this car." _I love you._

His brother's soft chuckle and gentle fingers pushing his bangs out of face were the last things he remembered.

This time when he slept, there were no hillibillies or sticks, just him, his brother, and a car.

…

And as the powerful black car maneuvered the twilight-lit back roads, her engine growled and warned the darkness away.

The End


End file.
